Grindhouse Bossa Nova
by The Counter-Point Man
Summary: Everybody has a story in the shining utopian confines of New Eden City. Runners, Cops, ordinary people. Sometimes when these stories become intertwined with one another, all hell breaks loose. A pulp fiction-y study of the many characters of New Eden.


Aww yeeeeeaahh! Layin' down the author's note like da BAAAWZ! At first, this story started out as one, featuring a bleak narrative of a runner shadowing Faith in the events of _Mirror's Edge_, but that is starting to become very stale, in my opinion. Scrapping the idea, I began sprouting more and more plots, until I decided, "Screw it, I'll mix it all up into one!" Though this fic is the body of one, it focuses on the stories of several others. Not everyone is a runner in the tainted paradise of New Eden City. Everyone has a story, and this focuses on those aspects of character. Enjoy, and don't forget to read and review!

* * *

**The Fictlizuh presents. . .**

_**Grindhouse Bossa Nova**_

_Many stories about one story_

_

* * *

  
_

The diner reeked of must and saltwater, being as it was one of the many along the waterfront of New Eden City. Gulls could be heard outside of the 1950's themed structure, digging through the dumpster and picking out the choice leftovers the restaurant's customers. To them, it was fine cuisine. The spoiled occupants rarely finished a hamburger, much less an entire meal, which was dumped into the green container and hauled off by the trucks late at night. The trucks were rarely seen, due to their new midnight shifts. To keep the city clean, the bureaucrats in their little cubicles in the government district decided to enforce this policy, completely changing the daily routines of many, 'Waste management experts'. Not that it mattered to any of the diner's frequenters. As long as they got their meal, they were happy.

Faith Connors stared down into her coffee blankly, swirling her spoon in the mug, although the cream and sugar had long since been mixed in. Steam serpentined from the cup through her jet black hair, causing her eyes to water slightly. Taking a sip of her coffee, Faith glanced around the diner. The jukebox, painted a creamy white and stylish red, was silent, a sticky note fixed on the front, reading, **"Out of Order"**. To suffice for the broken jukebox, the manager had placed a small, box-like radio on the counter, an oldies rock'n'roll station blaring tinnily about the diner.

"–and that was _I'm Walkin'_ by Fats Domino, followed by _Rockin' Robin _by Bobby Day," said the oldies DJ in a monotone. "And the electrifyin' hits of the fifties keeps on truckin' with this next little diddy that was number nine in the summer of '55. _Love is a Splendored Thing_, by the Four Aces."

Faith ignored the music that had begun to play, focusing more on the restaurant's occupants. A couple sat in one booth together, their lips locked over their meals. A bloated blonde waitress, not on her shift, was in a booth alone, sipping a cup of tea and a tuna sandwich. A man, near the end of the diner, was concealed by an outspread newspaper. A faint tail of blue smoke drifted over the top of the paper, meaning that he was smoking a cigarette.

_Love is a many splendored thing,_

_It's the April rose that only grows in early spring,_

_Love is nature's way of giv–_

Facing forward, Faith looked upon the customers to her front. Two men were in the booth next to hers, arguing about something.

"–that's not my fault, kid. I–"

"–the hell up. You don't even know what I've been thr–"

"–ou sound like when you're bitching like th–"

"–sensible human being better be the–

"–duck! You sound like a damned duck. _Quack, quack, qua–_"

–_In the morning mist two lovers kissed and the world stood still,_

_Then your fingers touched my silent heart and taught it how to sing,_

_Yes, true love's a many splendored thin–_

The final occupied booth was, unlike the one in front of her, quiet. Leaning over the side to get a better view, Faith's eyes widened. Was that. . . ?

The door to the diner opened roughly, the bell ringing and clanging as it slammed shut. Two men scanned the restaurant, bent on looking for something, or someone. Faith slouched into her booth's seat, then sighed. She knew they'd find her eventually, but she didn't know they would be so Johnny-on-the-spot about it. One man tapped the shoulder of the other, then pointed to a booth. Faith's mind was racing, her breath becoming shallow. If they weren't after her, it had to be. . .

"You! In the corner booth! Hands up!"

As the two men moved in for their prey, Faith, clenched her coffee mug and splashed it in the man's face. He reeled back in sudden pain, covering his newly burnt face. The second man already had his hand in his coat, likely reaching for his gun. Before faith could react, the man had fooled her, lunging into her side with brute force. By now, the restaurant's occupants were up and alert, watching the scene unfold. Faith fell onto her back, the cold, hard wooden floor not welcoming in the slightest. The man, shadowing her, pulled out his gun, a police issue Glock 17, and aimed it at Faith's face. The man suddenly stumbled back, nearly stepping on his burnt partner. A pie had been thrown at him from one of the arguing men, who had now stood up and continued to throw more food and eating utensils at the armed man. The man recovered, countering by shooting him with his Glock. A spurt of red encroached his torso, making him slump backward. He tried desperately to grasp the side of the table, only to keep falling to the floor. The armed man's victory was short lived, however, when a bullet skimmed his left shoulder, nearly entering his arm. Clasping his new wound tightly, the man swore as he looked upon the new shooter. Kate Connors held the snub-nosed revolver tightly, still aiming at the armed man. By now, customers and staff were in a full panic, tripping over each other just to escape the bloody shootout. Before the armed man could counter, two cracks of another pistol were heard. The armed man fell to his knees, two bleeding bullet holes in the back of his coat. The man who was reading the newspaper held a Beretta 92 in his left hand, the barrel smoking from the two back-to-back shots. Suddenly, the newspaper reader fell onto the floor, clenching his bleeding lower torso. Kate had accidently fired and shot the man, lowering her weapon and crossing the diner to help the wounded man. Kate then fell with a cry, a bullet wound in her thigh bleeding profusely. Faith looked down at the new shooter, the man who she had splashed her coffee on, his Glock now pointed at her. Through instinct, Faith smashed her foot into the man's temple, causing his hand to clench and his gun to go off again. The second arguing man, a younger man with blonde hair, slumped back into his seat, a bullet hole nearly precisely between his cerulean blue eyes.

_Once on a high and windy hill,_

_In the morning mist two lovers kissed and the world stood still,_

_Then your fingers touched my silent heart and taught how to sing,_

_Yes, true love's a many splendored thing._

All was silent. Even the stunned customers stopped their panicking in the wake of the last gunshot. As blood pooled about the older arguing man onto the wooden floor, Faith did the only thing she could do right:

Ran.

* * *

Read and review, please.


End file.
